


the years have gone, but we were strong, and you are still the same

by thesecretdetectivecollection



Category: Football RPF
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-01
Updated: 2016-12-01
Packaged: 2018-09-03 16:22:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,043
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8720557
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thesecretdetectivecollection/pseuds/thesecretdetectivecollection
Summary: In 2016, Bayern Munich lost in a Champions League semi-final match against Atletico Madrid. Xabi Alonso didn't take it well. But then again, Stevie knew he wouldn't. He calls Xabi afterwards, to cheer him up.





	

It doesn’t get easier, part of him marvels. Some part of him that’s far away from the rest of him, some part of him that can still make rational observations when he shuts down like this. It never gets easier. It doesn’t matter if it’s his first or his last (and god, please don’t let this be his last. Please.)

He finds himself hiding his head in Manu’s chest and that same distant part of him is grateful for big keepers whose hugs feel like his father’s had when he’d lost in the U11s. Oh, to be young again, he thought wretchedly, when you could cry without the fucking cameras zooming in on you like bloody vultures, searching for any emotional scraps that could sell papers or get views online. 

The dressing room is quiet. Fips and Thomas go around, offering hugs to the young players who look heartbroken, and poor looks of comfort and shared pain for those who are older and wiser. Xabi’s turn comes too, and as arms go around his shoulder, he forces himself to tune in to the gentle German words swimming into his ears. He nods, forces a pathetic knockoff smile. 

“Next season, yes?” He says. _How many more seasons do we have left in us?_ He pointedly doesn’t add. Thomas will still have many, yes, but it is Philipp who catches on to his train of thought, and suddenly, Xabi wishes he hadn’t said anything. 

He gets home, accepts a pity hug from his wife, wraps his children in a tight embrace, and sighs as the squeeze around his chest eases just slightly. 

His phone is buzzing. The last thing he wants is to answer, so he lets it go. That’s the end of it. Or it would have been, had he not taken the thing out and set it on the table, crossing wearily to the fridge. Nagore sees it, looks up at him once, and crosses over to turn the thing off. 

He waits for the buzzing to stop as he opens the fridge, looking for that little bit of chocolate ice cream he stored behind the frozen vegetables, trying to save it from young eyes and sticky fingers. 

The buzzing hasn’t stopped, he notes in confusion. 

“It’s Steven,” Nagore says in quiet surprise. 

And ignoring Stevie isn’t an option. Has never been an option, not since the day he’d met the man, really. 

Besides, if there’s one man who knows the agony of defeat, the agony of being close enough to feel your dream slip through grasping fingers, it’s this man. 

He puts the ice cream back, picks up the phone, and leaves the kitchen, to find somewhere quiet. 

“Stevie,” his voice is quiet, plaintive, like a child complaining to his mother. 

“I know, Xabi.” And suddenly Xabi’s pissed. Spitting mad. Because honestly, Stevie _doesn’t_ know. He has no fucking clue. Would never know, now. Stevie’d been content to settle with mediocrity with Liverpool, hadn’t gone off to seek glory and trophies and fame. 

“You don’t know, Stevie.”

“I don’t know what it’s like to have a trophy in my hand, and watch it fucking _slip_ away?” The wording is no coincidence, and on any other day, that would have been enough to penetrate the red fog clouding Xabi’s head, but not today. 

“Not a Champions League trophy, Steven,” he says archly. 

Stevie sighs, heavily, and that distant part of Xabi’s mind? That part of him hates whatever’s making him say these things, making him hurt one of the kindest and best people he’s ever met from this crazy game. 

“I didn’t call to fight with you, Xabi,” he says. _Thirty-five_ , that damned part of his mind flashes in from of him, _Stevie’s thirty-five_. Old enough to be tired of stupid bullshit. But Xabi’s not quite done yet. 

“Have you called Nando yet? Congratulate the best player you’ve ever played with!” he spits at his captain, a boy jealous of his younger brother. _And it’s **former**_ captain, that distant part of his mind reminds him. 

“If he’s capable of acting like an adult man, maybe I should!” and he remembers now that Stevie, for all his kindness and loyalty, is no pushover. 

“Look, Xabi, I called you because I saw you, after the match, cuddled up with that giant of a keeper you have, sunk down on your knees. I remember what it was like to look like that, to _feel_ like that. And I’m not there to throw an arm around you like I used to, but I still wanted to do something, make sure you were going to be okay, I guess. So I called. Why can’t you just accept that?” 

And hearing someone he admires this much admit to caring about him (still! after all these years!) pricks the bubble of his anger, and it melts away into gratitude that he has this wonderful man in his life. That distant part of his mind wonders if he’d call Nando this way had the result of the match been different. It’s not a productive line of thought, so he forces himself to abandon it. Silence hangs in the air between the two men, until Xabi is the one to break it. 

“You’re right Stevie. As always. Thank you for calling.”

“No problem, mate. You still got that stupid ice cream thing you do after… days like today?” Has Xabi really not changed over the years, or has Steven always known him better than most?

“Yeah, I do. Chocolate.” And he’s not quite sure when he started, but Xabi’s smiling now, and maybe all he needed was a pick-me-up phone call from Captain Fantastic. 

Maybe Stevie can hear the smile in his voice, the way Xabi can hear the satisfaction in Stevie’s next few words. When they hang up, Xabi’s heart isn’t squeezing anymore, though he does go to bed early, right after that ice cream. 

In his dreams, he wears a different red kit, brighter than Bayern’s, and he sees Stevie and Carra. He’s kissing someone with a blurred face, confetti everywhere, the cold metal of a cup warming beneath his lips, his hands, even the intensity of his gaze. 

He wakes the next morning, gets dressed, and goes to training. 


End file.
